Past Mortem (14 page)

SIXTEEN

W
hen he got home Newson poured himself a drink and sat for a long time thinking.

He was emotionally and sexually dysfunctional. He had no girlfriend and no life. He was in love with someone who did not love him, and the only sex he’d had that year was with a woman he’d dragged up out of his past who was even more dysfunctional than he was.

He had to get a grip. He
had
to sort himself out.

He also had to find a serial killer. A serial killer who in Newson’s opinion had already murdered a minimum of five people.

It was early evening and Newson resolved that the best thing he could do to put pointless thoughts of Natasha and Lance from his mind was to get straight back to work. He brought out his file on the Bishop case, picked up the phone and dialled. A nervous foreign voice answered the phone.

‘Meeesis Beeshop ‘ouse.’

‘Oh, hello. Is that Juanita?’—

‘She no here no more. Goodbye.’

The phone went dead. Newson dialled again.

‘Hello, I’d like to speak to Mrs Bishop, please. This is Detective Inspector Newson.’

It took some time, but eventually he heard the hard estuary tones of Adam Bishop’s widow on the line. ‘Yeah. What is it? You caught the bastard yet?’

‘Sadly not.’

‘Then what you doing phoning me for? I’m being sprayed.’

‘I was just wondering, Mrs Bishop, whether your record and CD collection contains much music from the fifties or early sixties?’

‘Are you having a laugh? I’m having an all-over treatment.’

‘This is a police inquiry, Mrs Bishop. Just answer the question, please.’

‘Oh, I see. So I’m still getting treated worse than you lot treat the villains, am I? Well, let me think, then. We chucked a lot of that stuff out when we went over to CDs. We preferred more modern sounds. We’ve got Elvis, of course, you know, greatest hits and that, and I suppose a couple of compilations for parties.’

‘Do you own any Everly Brothers?’

‘No.’

‘Early Cliff Richard?’

‘Piss off.’

‘So you don’t have ‘Move It’?’

‘Oh, I see what you’re getting at. What the bastard who done Adam in was playing? Yeah, that weren’t our stuff. I coulda told you that at the time. He brought his own bleedin’ -music with him. Can you imagine! What a
cunt
.’

Newson thanked Mrs Bishop and put the phone down. He went to his computer with the intention of searching the files on the Spencer and Tatum murders again to see if there had been mention of music that he’d so far missed. However, something was waiting for him that required instant attention.—

There was an email from Christine Copperfield.

Disappointingly it was not a personal message. His name was only one of many on the list in the address box. She was contacting the whole class. Nonetheless he was included, and she was definitely back. After twenty years Christine Copperfield and he were sharing the same environment. Even if it was only a virtual one.

Hi Guys! How’s it GOING! Christine here. Yeah! Looks like once you start with this Friends Reunited thing you just can’t STOP. Look, I had a thought OK’ Did you see that they’re having a big Eighties concert in Hyde Park? YAVI It’s called ‘How Cool Were We?’ and weren’t we just!! It’s an incredible line-up too! Duran, The Thompson Twins, Spandau!! I mean COME ON GUYS! This one was made for US! And, more importantly, it’s all for charity! Kidcall! Yeah, it’s being organized by Dick Crosby, isn’t he the greatest? I SO admire all the brilliant stuff he’s done. Anyway I was thinking why don’t we use it as an excuse for a reunion! Yeah! We could meet somewhere cool like maybe Pizza On The Park (gotta eat! Don’t want to get TOO pissed!!!) and then go on to the gig! How cool would that be? I’d be happy to organize the tickets (might even be able to get some concessions through my PR job daaaaarling), so I only need to know the numbers. INTERESTED??? Get back to me. And hey, Roger? Gary? If you’re around you guys HAVE to come, can’t hold grudges, LIFE’S TOO SHORT!! See ya!!

Newson wrote back immediately.

Dear Christine, You ask how cool would that be? My answer is WAY COOL! Count me IN! It’s wonderful of you to offer to organize this, I must say, but then you always were rather wonderful, weren’t you? Particularly during the period between the 12th and 18th of December 1984 which still ranks for me as the best week of my school days. I THINK you know why. Listen, I’m SO glad you’re an admirer of Dick Crosby, I think he’s great too. In fact I sort of know him! Yeah! jealous? Get OVER it. Yeah, he’s done some work with the Police Officers’ Federation. He addressed our last conference and I got chatting to him. Maybe I’ll be able to introduce you at the Hyde Park thing, although no promises! Hey, it’s so great that you’ve broken into the media! You really followed your dream, didn’t you? And I thought I had an exciting job as Senior Murder Detective with the National Crime Agency working out of New Scotland Yard, and yes, before you ask, I am cleared to carry firearms, but I promise not to bring a gun to the gig. HEY! How cool are we! GOLD! as Spandau Ballet used to say. I guess you can’t put it better than that, can you?

Feeling rather ashamed but very pleased with himself, Newson pressed ‘send’ before his conscience had a chance to stop him.

Almost immediately he had mail, but it wasn’t from Christine, it was from Helen. He’d been expecting to hear from her sooner rather than later. There was no way he was ever going to have been able to simply walk away from that one. What he hadn’t expected was for the note to have a jpeg attached to it. Helen had sent him a photograph.

The subject in the title bar said ‘This Is Me’ and when Newson opened the jpeg it was a picture of Helen naked. She was standing in her flat with her arms slightly apart, the palms of her hands turned outwards to show the cuts. Apart from the scarring it was in fact a very pretty photograph. Helen’s body did not look as skinny as Newson had expected it to and her legs were shapely with nice calves. Her pubic mound was bushy, natural and unwaxed, which Newson remembered from when they had slept together and rather liked, and those tiny, weird little breasts stuck straight out from her ribcage in an engaging manner. Helen wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t frowning either. There was just enough quizzical curl at the corner of her mouth to bring out one of her dimples, and her short cropped hair had clearly had some product put in it. Newson considered that Helen must have been quite pleased with this photograph, for overall she looked very cute.

He opened the email.

Dear Ed,

So now you know my weakness. My shameful secret. I cut myself. I know. I know. Get a grip, girl. Get a life. I wasn’t lying when I said that I don’t do it often, but I was lying when I told you that I hadn’t done it recently. I expect you knew that, didn’t you? You’re a detective after all. I expect you know all about scars. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that the fact that I’m a self-abuser is not all of me, in fact it’s not much of me at all…just a tiny part, something that comes upon me from time to time, a kind of self-hate. I suppose when I’m down I get this kind of idle curiosity about how much worse I can feel. It’s almost like doodling. I don’t know what to do with myself so I make marks on my arms. But most of the time I’m not like that at all. I love my boy and I love my job. I told you that I was bullied and it’s really important to me to help other kids who find themselves in the same situation. That’s why I work for Kidcall. You wouldn’t believe the things that happen, the pain that’s caused. Kids, as they say, can be so cruel. But the positive side is we can help and we do help. That’s what I hang on to, always accentuate the positive.

I hope you like the photo and I hope you don’t think that sending it to you is too weird a thing to do, but having made such a point about the darkness last night I wanted you to know that I am not ashamed of who I am or for you to see me in the light.

This Is Me.

Love and love, Helen.

PS Karl is with his grandmother tomorrow night. I could come to you if you like. No pressure. Don’t even feel that you have to reply. I promise I won’t slash myself. H. xxx.

It was a very nice note to go with a very nice photo. Newson looked at the picture again.

When he’d left Helen’s flat the previous night he’d been quite sure that their new relationship such as it was would end right there, Too much baggage, as they say, far too much baggage. On the other hand, who was he to be so proud? He was a lonely man of thirty-four who was quite gruesomely obsessed with his entirely attached and equally uninterested sergeant. He drank too much, occasionally used pornography and was having rings run round him by a mysterious psychopath. He was useless.—

Helen, on the other hand, was all right. So she had her problems? Just because he went to bed with her did not make those problems his. She was lonely, he was lonely. What was more, he imagined that she, with her dimpled smile and pixie eyes, would find it a lot easier to meet people than he did. And yet she wanted him. That was nice. He felt flattered.

Dear Helen,

I thought the photograph was a lovely gesture and also a very lovely photograph. Forgive me if I don’t reciprocate with one of my own, but I’m not sure the net is ready yet for my naked ginger sauciness. It would be very nice to see you tomorrow night. Do you eat fish?

Ed

Newson toyed with the issue of how many crosses to add for some little while. How many? If any? In his suddenly fired up and horny state he was tempted to put about ten, but he knew that the sensible thing would be to go easy. Because of a combination of their ancient intimacy and the curious familiarity that emailing allowed, they’d come a long way very quickly. This woman was effectively a stranger, and yet he had already slept with her once and was now arranging almost immediately to do so again. Ed put one cross beside his name.

Ed. x
.

Then he added another. And another.

Ed. xxx
.

The following day was a Friday, most of which Newson spent at the Home Office in various political briefings and self-consciously cloak-and-dagger meetings. He had been told to proceed there urgently by no less a figure than Chief Superintendent Ward, because for all her youth Farrah Porter had been a high-profile MP.

‘A chance to redeem yourself on this one,’ Ward had said. ‘Don’t want another unsolved Tory politico on your record, do you? They’ll be giving you honorary membership of Sinn Fein.’

Ward was referring to what had been without doubt the most significant failure in Newson’s career to date. It involved the disappearance eighteen months before of a leading figure from the Tory front bench of the House of Lords. The highly reactionary hereditary peer had disappeared without trace, and Newson still hoped one day to find him. The case was never far from Newson’s mind because it had been so frustratingly baffling and utterly inexplicable. Lord Scanlan-McGregor had been wealthy, powerful and enjoying his recent third marriage to an elegant ex-model. One afternoon he had answered the door to an unnamed old friend. His butler stated that His Lordship had insisted on answering the door himself and that none of the servants had seen the visitor. Scanlan-McGregor had left the house shortly thereafter, presumably with the friend, and had never been seen or heard of since.

‘Lord Scanlan-McGregor’s absence from the House had a significant effect on the fate of both the Northern Ireland Police Bill and the blood sports second reading,’ Ward said. ‘In my opinion it seems a near certainty that he was abducted for political motives, and I don’t think we can rule that out in the case of Farrah Porter’s murder.’

Except, of course, in Newson’s mind it could be ruled out because as far as he was concerned it was quite the stupidest idea he had heard in a long time. He said as much to the lady from MI6 with whom he had been instructed to liaise as they sat opposite each other in a featureless, windowless basement room in Whitehall.

‘Why would a terrorist or maliciously motivated foreign power murder an opposition back-bencher, bleach her skin and dye her hair orange?’ he asked.

‘She was no longer merely a back-bencher,’ the woman replied. ‘Porter had just been co-opted on to the Shadow Cabinet steering committee for Northern Ireland.’

‘The parliamentary Tory Party isn’t as big as it used to be,’ said Newson. ‘Most of their MPs are on some standing committee or other.’

‘Orange. Very emotive colour in Northern Ireland, don’t you think?’

‘You’re kidding me, of course. This is a joke, isn’t it?’

‘Not at all. Porter was an unashamed Unionist, reactionary even by Northern Irish standards. Opposed to the Good Friday Agreement, opposed to any form of power-sharing with Sinn Fein. Apart from the fact that she was born in Basingstoke, she was an out-and-out Orangewoman. Perhaps somebody decided to actually turn her into one.’

‘You think some loony Republican dyed her hair orange to show what happens to people who oppose a united Ireland?’